Conflicting Thoughts
by FandomPuff
Summary: After a slight argument (that had absolutely NOTHING to do with Quidditch) Percy and Oliver are skating on thin ice with eachother. It doesn't help that the pair of them are starting to have some conflicting thoughts with regards to eachother.
1. You Need To Sort Out Your Priorities

**AN: This is my first story on this account, however, not my first attempt at fanfiction EVER (I used to write under a different alias but we don't talk about that) anyways, rabble over, enjoy :)**

A loud BANG echoed through the dormitories in the Gryffindor tower, swiftly followed by a shriek of 'Weasley!' A few frightened first years jumped, knocking over the pawns in their game of wizards' chess. The tiny soldiers began squabbling on the board, as a particularly grouchy knight brandished his sword.

Upstairs, into the sixth year dormitories, Oliver Wood seethed, his arms folded, brows knitted together. Percy Weasley is in the middle of one of the coldest eye-rolls in Hogwarts history, a slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Now really, Wood. You ought not to leave your…" Percy gestured to the pile of splintered wood and parchment on the ground. "…things lying around."

Steam practically spewed from Oliver's ears. He stared at the ruined parchment on the ground in anger; a hex which Percy had been 'perfecting' had rebound off the wall- straight into Oliver's chart of quidditch techniques. Now torn and battered, the diagrams moved sluggishly; the snitch moved at a snail's pace, but the inky sketch of Harry still couldn't catch it.

"My work" He raged, "was nowhere near you! All the other lads are perfectly capable of leaving each others stuff, so why can't you? I don't see any of your precious books in ruins at your feet. And it's not like my work was in your area! See, my bed, my trunk, my desk. My space. Your bed, your trunk, your desk, your space."

Oliver breathed heavily, fists clenched.

"Now really, Wood, there's no need for-"

"Now really, Weasley, you need to sort out your priorities!"

And with that, the burly Scot stormed from the room, grabbing his broomstick on his way out. The ginger rolled his eyes at his quick tempered dorm-mate and used a quick spell to clean everything up. Though he hated to admit it, he did feel bad for destroying Oliver's work (after all, he did love a Gryffindor win) but he would never utter anything of the sort aloud. Instead, the sensible Weasley shook his head at himself and carried on with his homework.

The wind whipped Oliver's robes around him as he soared around the quidditch pitch. It was were he was most at home, truthfully. He shut his eyes slightly and let the sharp, cool, early evening air nip at his face as his knuckles turned white against the handle of his broomstick.

Unknown to Oliver, Percy sat, huddled in his thick cloak, in the stands, tucked away so that anybody at the quidditch player's height would never spot him. He watched with intense concentration, as if the way Oliver flew was as intriguing as McGonagall's progressively more difficult spells. Well, in all truth, his flying was as intriguing as that, but for different reasons. Oliver was not a nimble seeker, nor a bulky beater. Of course, he was burly, due to his broad shoulders and well-built muscles, but he didn't appear stocky like a fair few of Percy's brothers. The way Oliver sat upon his broom made him look taller, but not gangly, like Ron. His deportment was excellent, and he didn't slouch like a sack of potatoes, even when flying for pleasure rather than competition.

While Percy was left in deep concentration with regards to him, Oliver was completely oblivious as to his spy. He allowed himself to dip and curve and dive and soar through the air, looping around the hoops on either side of the pitch. Soon he began to relax, completely loosen up in his natural habitat, though the sun was setting lower and lower, and the sky was being dyed a deeper and inkier black by the minute. He touched back to the ground and slung his broomstick over his back as he walked back to the changing rooms. He showered himself quickly, casting a quick chat, to ensure that the dodgy changing room showers spat hot, steamy water at him instead of freezing him half to death. He groaned slightly at the hot waster running over his shoulders, as it relaxed every tense nerve there was to find.

Like most people do, he began to have a deep and meaningful think in the shower, questioning many aspects of his life. Should he reconsider his NEWT subjects? Should he be a quidditch player, coach, or teacher when he left school? Should he go easier on Weasley? Should he apologise?

He sighed to himself as he rustled through his thoughts, before turning off the shower and towelling himself dry. He dressed in a thick jumper and a pair of trousers before exiting the changing rooms, precious broom in hand.

Meanwhile, since the changing room doors shut, Percy had been staring intently at the door, squinting to see the first signs that his room mate might be exiting shortly. When he did, Percy followed Oliver with his eyes, taking in everything from his grip on the broom stick, to his slightly spikier still-soaked hair. He swallowed a lump in his throat with great difficulty, before making his own way down to the castle, entering through a different door to make it seem as though he had just exited the library after a late night study session. He sighed to himself as he thought about the evening's events. He couldn't deny, Oliver Wood was bloody well attractive. But these thoughts confused and worried Percy, and chilled him to the bone. He'd only ever been out with girls, and even they didn't seem too impressed with him. Not to mention he had six brothers, and god knows what they'd say if they found out he maybe-not-certainly-but-possibly-never-going-to-admit-it liked another boy. They already teased Ron enough for being the youngest brother, and Ginny for her more than slight crush on the Chosen One. He sighed quietly to himself, lost in a sea of his own thoughts, when he walked smack into something, big, hard and human.

"Oi, watch it- oh it's you."

A heavy Scottish accent pulled him from his own little world.

"Oh. Sorry." He mumbled. "Calmed down now?"

The Scotsman cracked a small smile, his rage from earlier replaced with boisterous, banter-y humour. "Oh, well, you know me. A good fly will boost my mood,"

You have no idea thought Percy.

"Well, uh…" he stammered. "I'll be… I'll be… bed. Yes. Off to bed. In the tower. Which is not along this corridor. Ah yes, bed. In the Gryffindor tower. Ahem. Excuse me," he said, growing more and more flustered, ears burning crimson, pink cheeks contrasting heavily with his freckles and fiery hair. "Hm, yes. Bed."

"Weasley, I heard you the first three times." Oliver said, a slight smirk playing on his lips.

"Well… yes. Bed. I'll be… I'll be off now. Uh… charms tomorrow. See you then," he hurried off, tripping over his own feet, completely losing his composure as he practically ran away, leaving Oliver confused, with furrowed brows and a shaking head.


	2. Charms

It is important to note that, regardless of the day, the boys' dormitories in the Gryffindor Tower were not the most pleasant places to be in the morning. The sixth year's dormitories were like a battlefield in the morning. Percy Weasley, always up at the crack of dawn, pinning his prefect badge carefully to his robes, making sure his hair wasn't a total mess. Oliver Wood would wake at the last moment shower quickly and pull on his uniform, running a hand through his hair. The other boys would move at various paces, doing anything to avoid the two perfectionists' tempers.

Only in the morning, the curtains to Percy's four poster bed didn't pull open at six. This morning, Oliver rose before him, and, in nothing but his tartan pyjama bottoms, he pottered around the dormitory, sitting on his bed, flicking through his charms essay. The other boys had left for the library to finish potions homework due first lesson, but Oliver hung behind. When Percy finally rose from his bed, Oliver was just coming out of the shower, a white towel slung low on his hips.

Percy did a double take, eyes as wide as saucepans. There Oliver was, hair mussed up and wet, dripping droplets of water down his chiselled chest. His shoulders glistened with hot water, and the scent of his shower gel (some obscure wizarding brand he picked up from a trip to Spain to watch a quidditch match) filled the room.

 _Merlin_ , Percy thought to himself. He cleared his throat.

"What's the matter, Weasley," Oliver asked. "Clear off to the bathroom if you're fussing about me getting changed."

And, with a lot of self control, Percy ducked into the bathroom. Disappointed he was, as he had wanted to take in EVERYTHING about his dorm mate. In all honesty, he was rather intriguing…

He sighed, splashing cold water into his face. He should be thinking this at all, for many reason. The most prominent one being, his brothers would never let him hear the end of this. Then there was his N.E.W.T.S to think about, and his future job prospects. Not to mention his Transfiguration essay on Animagi due in two lessons time. He shook his head, mentally scolding himself.

…

"Merlin's pants, Weasley, shut up!"

Charms was not exactly Oliver's strong subject. As much as he loved Flitwick, he did find it rather unnecessary to be in register order after six years. Not that he had anything against register order (that meant he could sit by Aaron Trott, a quidditch enthusiast, when they had lessons with the Hufflepuffs) but in most lessons, he had to test his patience sat next to Percy. Granted, he could always ensure his work was correct, but it came at a dire cost. Every lesson, Percy would find something to complain about, and today it was Oliver's essay.

"Really, Oliver, this isn't the neatest essay. You've had two whole weeks to do this. Two! Look at the state of it, the ink smudges- you even swapped ink colours halfway through. Show some pride in your work-"

"Weasley," Oliver said steadily, cutting off his rant. "If you don't shut up about the state of my essay, I will personally shove said 'display of poor effort' right up where the sun don't shine, you hear?" He growled, growing very annoyed, very quickly. This appeared to work, and Percy was silenced. Grumpily, Oliver got on with his work, making notes in his narrow, slanted writing.

Unfortunately, it didn't take Percy long to stick his nose back into Oliver's work. For a good while, Oliver ignored him, before he cracked. "Shut it, Weasley, before I make you." He said in a low, agitated voice.

The effect of seven words on one of the most outspoken people he knew was rather spectacular. Almost instantly, Percy's ears glowed pink, his eyes widening. He quickly looked away to hide dilated pupils, and bright red cheeks, but Oliver had caught on quickly.

"What's the matter, Weasley?" He teases, a cocky glint in his eyes. His joy was short lived however, by the sound of the bell, and Flitwick squeakily assigning them a few chapters of their textbook to read. Percy practically ran from the classroom, muttering something about Advanced Ancient Runes. Oliver shook his head, going off to spend his free lesson re-writing all of his quidditch plans. He shook off Percy's embarrassment pretty quickly.

 _Smug prat probably doesn't like being told to shut up_ , he thought to himself.


End file.
